In this room where I grew up
calves’ roars creep in the open window.
Day dream on the bed,
mirror reflects in Autumn:
the time my notebook fills,
floods like the land.

As I check my email from my phone,
two daddy long legs mate
on the discoloured floorboards–
no business of mine
enter my password–
no business of theirs.

The dog suddenly barks, the front door opens,
two old babes shuffle in to visit Gran
in the same spot she’s been parked
for the last two years,
watching the seasons change
through the kitchen’s lace scene.

All as deaf as the dead; simultaneous
yet different conversations–
I interpret and translate. In unison
they sing my praises:
He’s good boy, oh yes a good boy indeed–
like I was the dog.

Outside Dad chops timber,
I make tea for three.
Cut some cake Gran worries.
What will they think?

Barn brack with ring,
memories of Halloween
play in my head,
welcomed like the moon, always.

Evening: after I have the sheep counted,
I watch the stag in the next field–
they rut this time of year,
call for a mate.

Tomorrow is Friday,
the first of the month.
The priest will call to the sick and elderly–
I will hear the dog announce
his red Toyota Starlett
over the fields.
Thank God Gran doesn’t know. I
can do without that worry
anytime of year.

From the kitchen window
between branches void of leaves–
a light. Out, over the wall
through the wood,
into the field, I stand.
Bright-faced moon.
I long to touch,
to caress.
But my hand cannot reach
even with my pen.

As dusk creeps in,
wind and rain fight for space
painting a poem.

I gaze up at the stars, so many
endless possibilities...paper-trails,
hypothesising on variables handed down by butterflies.
Personally I think the stars  
are holes in the jam-jar
so we don’t suffocate.

Cold hydraulic hand drops her body            
onto the bloodied floor–
pigs, sheep and other cows
thrown in a pile.
Hand the driver the paperwork,
plus the cheque, the charge to remove.
Pots of glue are cheap, leather jackets are not,
and not a penny we have made
from this black cow who in eight years
had seven expensive still-borns.

In spring she watched
as the other calves found their legs.
Felt indifference when the calves started school,
where graduation is awarded in three different categories:
medium, rare and well-done.
Her first calf, all red
bar a white tuft on his head,
killed her.

A lone magpie squawks from a bare tree
as I am handed my receipt. Record of transaction
if officials from the Department inquire
as to BNNZ-00-12T.
The calf looks on,
deteriorating behind a closed grey gate.
Snow briefly falls.

In the fields the sun casts long shadows
of trees and sheep. A breeze blows.
The work continues.

Next morning
no need for the chain
that dragged his mother with the tractor
to the concrete yard.
A length of rope will do.
Not yet a number in the system,
the only record of its existence–
a drag mark through the ****.

The barrel’s of water in the yard
filled by run-off rain
from corrugated sheds
washes the wellingtons,
the calving jack and
purges pests.
Otherwise, I’d have to waste
a cartridge.

all winter housed in the yard. Fed
the freshest silage, the cleanest water.
All the nuts they could eat.

But they’d hang their heads by the gate,
longed for earth between their hooves.
Hard to run giddy on concrete
between confining walls.

Eventually beaten with hurlies
and a black pipe
onto the back of a truck.

5 heifer hang from hooks.

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to personal experience.
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end of poem.